


Aquarium

by tenyearstoalaska



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25130209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenyearstoalaska/pseuds/tenyearstoalaska
Summary: After eight years together, Baz and Simon take a trip to the Aquarium. It doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter One

**IT WAS A BITTER DAY** in late December; the time of year after Christmas when the days melt together into a tinsel and pine scented mess and nobody knows which day of the week it is until the fireworks go off on New Year’s.  
Penelope Bunce was awake. The rest of London was not.  
Because the rest of London was sensible. The rest of London _didn’t_ _get involved with business that wasn’t theirs._ Luckily for Penelope, the rest of London was disorganized, hadn’t seen a calendar since June, and had asked Penelope to _get involved with business that wasn’t hers_ , because the rest of London was worried he was going to mess everything up. And Penelope Bunce knew he probably would.

Quietly, she called his mobile. It was nearly one in the morning.

‘Hello?’ Baz answered, barely awake. ‘Bunce.’

Penelope was a brilliant genius and the best magician to have ever cast a spell, but she didn’t have a great sense of timing. Not only had the call woken Baz, but it had woken his boyfriend, who had been sleeping in an uncomfortable looking knot. Simon stirred, but he couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes. He was usually a heavy sleeper…but not even the catatonic could resist the intoxicating adrenaline rush of listening to a conversation that wasn’t yours to hear. So he listened. Drowsily. Barely. Maybe he would go back to sleep after all…

Baz propped himself up on one arm. ‘If you’re going to turn off my do not disturb with magic,’ he said, ‘could you please set my phone to vibrate? Snow is sleeping.’

‘Sleeping schmeeping,’ said Penelope. ‘I was looking online for a route---’ And then Simon Snow pulled a pillow over his head. This conversation was boring. He tried to think of things that would make him fall asleep again: A crackling fire. A s’more over the fire. A s’more in his mouth. Michael Bublé’s voice…not that it was boring enough to send someone to sleep, but that it was comforting enough to fall asleep to, even if Michael Bublé had been singing to him while sharpening an axe in the corner, dimly illuminated by flickering firelight…

Baz responded to Penelope in muffled, sleepy ‘Mhms,’ and ‘Okays,’ and sometimes a faint ‘Crowley…’

Simon thought about how, if Michael Bublé had been a mage instead of a siren, he and Baz would have probably stopped fighting much earlier. They would have formed a harem and both married Bublé in secret. Penelope would probably have joined.

Simon pretended to wake up. His plan to send himself to sleep had failed.

‘Oh, see you Bunce. Yes, I love you too. Go to sleep. Tell Shepard I said hello. To his herb garden, not to him. I’m only joking. Ha. No, tell me later. Goodnight---morning.’

‘Can I talk to her?’ said Simon, pretending to yawn.

‘No,’ Baz said. Penelope murmured something through the other end of the phone. Baz hung up. ‘But we can go back to sleep.’

Baz was dressed, awake, and dismantling the lower half of the Christmas tree by the time Simon woke up.

‘You’re taking it down?’ Simon said. ‘Where’s your Christmas spirit? Why are you up?’

‘I wasn’t tired,’ said Baz. One of the perks of being undeterminably undead was that you were sometimes allowed to skip important living-person things, like breakfast, sleep, and driving lessons. ‘So many questions. Half of my Christmas spirit is in a storage unit in Wembley, Snow. My heart is three sizes too small.’ The Grinch looked up at Simon, who was now looking like a dejected puppy. ‘Well, you know how I said we’d go out on Saturday?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Today is Saturday. And Bunce, the miracle worker she is---’ he walked over to where Simon was leaning against their bedroom doorframe. Then, like a show magician with playing cards, he revealed two blue-and-white tickets to---‘Viola. The Aquarium.’ 

‘She got us these?’ said Simon, ‘If I wasn’t your boyfriend, I would be proposing to Penny right now. I would marry her.’

‘You’re stuck with me,’ Baz smiled as he tugged one of Simon’s curls flat. ‘So change out of your pajamas. The bus leaves at six.’

Penelope was always suggesting field trips and outings Baz and Simon. She was a fox, and Baz and Simon were the two chickens in the coop who never left because they were always watching _Grey’s Anatomy_ or _The Great British Bake-Off._ (It’s very common.) She told them to go do something fun for once---implying that watching people yell at each other over deconstructed lemon meringue _wasn’t_ fun. She would have been surprised if Simon had actually qualified for the show like he had wanted to---there was a period when he had seriously considered competing, much to the dismay of his limited set of culinary skills. Though he could handle sharp objects perfectly fine, wielding a magical sword that came and went at his disposal was never the same song and dance as chopping fruits without throwing the wrong bits in the rubbish or cutting off his own arms instead of melting eighty grams of butter in the microwave. Simon’s giant dragon wings and tail like a whip would probably have him disqualified---he’d have too much fun inconspicuously knocking competitors out of the game.

Baz was fond of keeping all of his boyfriend’s limbs in-tact and avoiding a criminal lawsuit, and eventually persuaded him to give up on his dreams. At least he’d be adored by Nicole Byer and Jacques Torres. Right?

When Penelope and Shepard got engaged and started doing Did-You-Notice-We’re-Engaged couple things like taking photos together on Ferris wheels and buying matching mugs and sweaters and oven mitts that said Hers and His, Simon was a little bit jealous---though he’d be embarrassed to say it. He wondered, sometimes, if Baz would ever do anything like that with him, or if he’d even want matching oven mitts in the first place. He doubted they’d be sold in His and His bundles, and they didn’t know any lesbians to give the Hers and Hers to if they had to buy two pairs. _His & His._ _Dragon’s & Vampire’s. Competent Chef’s & The One Who Almost Burnt Down the Flat Making Sour-Cherry Scones but They Tasted Bloody Good Anyways, So You Can Just Be Quiet, Alright?...’s_

Simon’s New Year’s resolution was to meet more lesbians.

Penny and Shepard moved into a tiny new brick-walled place in Notting Hill with cheery cherry wallpaper and ceramic Geese and ballerinas on the bookshelves and tins that seemed to always be full of biscuits. It felt homely, and nice, and lived in. Simon wished he could curl up on their Turkish rug and live on it forever like a dragon-shaped centerpiece coffee table. The apartment itself was sandwiched between an antique store and a fantastic old coffee shop where everyone knew Baz and Simon by their orders---except one time, Simon’s cup had read ‘Salmon.’ (How?) Penny worked there part-time, and Salmon was certain she secretly spelled the coffee sweeter. It tasted like heaven. Baz always had the same thing: a medium pumpkin mocha breve with extra cinnamon spice. Marshmallows if he was in a mood.

Today, Baz was in a _mood_ , but it wasn’t the same as it usually was. Simon wasn’t used to it. He didn’t say anything petty from the living room about Simon’s ugly button-up woolen Christmas cardigan and how old it made him look, or the fact he had eaten a whole stick of solid butter for breakfast. He just sat on their couch, bobbed his leg up and down, and ran his hand over his trousers in circles as he explained the carnivorous nature of the dolphin. (He also told Simon they sleep with only half their brain. ‘Crowley, it’s brilliant.’ He said. ‘Don’t you wish you could do that? Sleep with half your brain? Crowley. Brilliant.’) And so, despite Baz’s avid protest, Simon ran down to the corner store to buy him a so-so packet of marshmallows. Three quid.

At five-forty-five a.m., Baz was pulling Simon Snow by the sleeve of his coat down a long, winding staircase. It smelled vaguely of mildew, but mostly of cheap carpeting and lavender-scented essential oil.

Baz had a love-hate relationship with outings with Simon. One of the things he was thankful Penelope never _really_ had to deal with was what Baz secretly called ‘The Goldfish Dilemma.’ It was a common, infuriating phenomenon in which anytime they wanted to go out, it would only ever happen _after_ a series of _I Think I Forgot To Lock The Door_ , _Did I Forget My Scarf_ , and _Wait A Minute Baz Check Your Pockets Do You Have The Keys Or Do I?_ incidents, and then as soon as they left the building, Simon would have to stop to tie his shoes. Love him as he did, sometimes Baz wished he would just wear slip-ons---Crowley, even boat shoes would do.

After being together for eight years, Baz knew Simon’s many tendencies, probably better than Simon knew them himself. His schedule included allocated timeslots for bakery visits, because Simon bumbled into every sweet-smelling store he passed; and London was not short on bakeries. He was a moth to the flame, a dragon to the scone. ‘It’s an addiction,’ Baz had said to Simon once, and Simon shot him a look that meant: _You’d die without at least two coffees a day._

Baz’s middle name was Hypocritical. But he would be hung, drawn and quartered before he was denied the right to sweet, sweet caffeine.

They weaved their way through a series of maze-like alleyways and small side-streets, illuminated by occasional passing headlights or flickering neon street signs. It was only early morning, and the milky-grey fog was yet to clear. There was something comforting in the way the liveliness of the bustling city was not gone, but transformed. It manifested instead in the reflection of the dim lights on the wet asphalt, the way certain paths were slightly worn and discolored from years of foot traffic, the way the air still smelled like tinsel and wafts of fresh baked bread. Despite his tiredness, this was something Simon loved about the city. It was just like his magic; something that had once overflowed and took over every part of him, so huge and all-encompassing and present it sometimes felt bigger than himself was now something that warmed him from the inside, like there was always a wood fire crackling inside of him. That’s how Baz felt, too. Sometimes, when the feeling was stronger, it felt like that heavy, thumping feeling you get in your stomach when you listen to loud, loud music. Once he had told Baz about it late at night, and he had said, tired, ‘Thy cup runneth over _._ ’ Simon had said, ‘You’re strange.’

Going off wasn’t dangerous anymore; not like it was before. The only thing explosive about Simon Snow now was his cooking. (And his wings.)

Baz knew Simon had always wanted to visit the Aquarium. A visit was only half the reason he was taking Simon today.

‘I’d love to see the goldentail eels again,’ said Baz. ‘They remind me of you, Snow.’

‘How come?’

‘You’ll know when you see them,’ he smiled. ‘They look like they were designed by Jim Henson.’

‘Like sperm whales,’ Simon laughed. ‘That’s flattering.’

‘Just like sperm whales. Crowley, I feel sorry for them.’

‘I really hope they’ve got dolphins. No--- _baby dolphins._ Or, you know those crabs we saw on Animal Planet? They looked like they’d live in the catacombs, with the pincers, and the legs. And I said, “If only those things could hold utensils. They’d eat you alive.” And you said---’ (he dropped his voice lower for Baz’s part,) ‘“I doubt they’d use cutlery. They’re huge, ruthless things. Some people think Amelia Earhart was eaten by crabs.”’

‘And I’m yet to be corrected,’ Baz laughed. ‘They don’t have the time for pleasantries or table manners. They probably couldn’t even tell you the difference between a teaspoon and a sundae spoon.’ He paused. ‘Was that supposed to be me?’

‘It was you,’ Simon sighed. ‘Your voice is too hard to do. It’s posh. And deep.’

‘There’ll be plenty of baby dolphins, love,’ Baz smiled, making his voice deeper and posher than usual. ‘And maybe a few smaller crabs. Normal sized ones.’

Simon laughed. ‘I hope they have the kind that ate Amelia Earhart.’

‘Pray that they don’t. I’m not losing you to a crustacean.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of fighting a crab.’

‘Not if there are hundreds of them,’ Baz laughed, ‘on an _island._ I didn’t see any of them the last time I visited. Coconut crabs. I don’t remember seeing any Japanese Spider Crabs---those are the catacomb crabs---either. Maybe you’ll have to do with the concept of one.’

‘Or we’ll go to the gift store and I’ll buy a stuffed catacomb crab instead,’ Simon said. ‘A catacrab. I could make do perfectly with that.’

‘If you’re willing to sit by your lonesome on the bus home, then yes, Simon Snow, you could. The crab itself is small, but its legs; eight to nine feet long _each_. And they’re so brittle, it’s like walking on ten oversized toothpicks. It’s ridiculous. A giant walking evolutionary eyesore.’

‘You’ve got oversized toothpicks for teeth,’ said Simon, ‘don’t go insulting my catacrabs just because you think your Muppet eels are all that.’

‘I’m offended, Snow,’ Baz laughed. ‘This is our stop.’

The bus stop was so bland and unremarkable it was hardly visible in the morning fog. If it hadn’t been for the obnoxiously bright, probably-a-road-hazard advertisement for toothpaste (9 out of 10 Doctors Recommend!), Baz and Simon probably would have walked directly into it. Despite its lack of visual aesthetic, they had to appreciate the fact that someone had tried to make it more Christmassy by weaving tinsel around the post of a nearby streetlamp and in and out of the metal pattern on the back of the stop’s shelter. All that was missing was a blow-up Santa Claus. And… _No mistletoe?_ Baz thought. _Is this a bus stop or a convent?_

Baz knew his boyfriend, but he didn’t know the erratic whims of public transport. His schedule worked under the assumption that the bus stop would be empty this early in the morning, but now he and Simon wouldn’t get that privacy. There were six other people standing in and around the stop; a woman with a violin case (NOT a common briefcase, as Baz had told Simon, with almost the same unadulterated anger as one whose name is oftentimes mistaken by baristas for a species of fish native to the North Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, popularly served with dill and mustard sauce), two schoolgirls, two men in suits, and a man in a dolphin mascot costume. It was too early in the morning for any of them to look up when Baz and Salmon arrived. _Thank Merlin,_ Simon thought, _my wings are spelled invisible._

‘Eight’s a party,’ Baz said quietly. He produced a small, perfectly folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his floral trousers and studied it carefully under the dull light of the festive streetlamp. From what Simon could see, it had Penelope, Shepard, and Baz’s handwriting; but as someone with a forgetful disposition and a need to wear glasses, he had forgotten to bring his glasses.

Baz had taken Simon to lean against the lamp post rather than to mingle close with the crowd. It was enough of a miracle his wings were staying invisible; they didn’t want to ruin the luck by tripping someone onto the road with a feisty spade-tipped dragon tail.

‘It’s a shame we didn’t leave earlier,’ Baz sighed. He put an arm around Simon’s shoulder. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have a car. I can drive, but I’m not supposed to. And I know you hate London traffic---Crowley, I hate buses…’

Simon said, ‘Earlier!’ in a hushed whisper that was less hushed than it should have been. ‘Baz, we woke up so early! We could have very well made it here earlier if I didn’t have to buy you marshmallows. I’ll probably pass out in the penguin enclosure from exhaustion. You’ll have to break the glass to save me.’

Baz raised an eyebrow. It was a look Simon took to mean, _you can fight a crab, but not a penguin?_ What it actually meant was; _we could have very well made it here in thirty minutes if you could resist the smell of scones._

‘Penguins have needles for teeth, Baz, and so do you. It’s a fair fight.’

‘Mustang,’ Baz said suddenly, ‘1968. Look there, Snow. Beautiful.’ He pivoted Simon towards the road by his belt loops. A turquoise, low riding car rolled by, so slowly it kicked up plumes of dust by its wheels. It lulled to rest about in front of the bus stop. Nobody stepped out, and the convertible roof didn’t budge.

‘Great snakes,’ said Simon. ‘It’s classic.’ He turned back to face Baz, who was still admiring the car. ‘But I just can’t really run on five hours of sleep.’

‘They’ve been off-roading,’ Baz said. ‘In a car like that? Beauty rest, Snow. You need it.’

‘It just takes a lot to manage these wings, I mean. I used to be able to stay awake for hours. Also,’ Simon paused, ‘you can’t say you hate buses when you have at least three shirts that look like bus seats. I’m not saying you don’t look _good_ in them, it’s just, I mean, you can dress like a bouquet or an eggplant and still look like…’

Baz pushed off of the streetlamp and started towards the Mustang. ‘Siegfried and Roy,’ Simon muttered. ‘What are you doing! Baz?’

Baz gestured at Simon to follow. He did. 

The Mustang was visibly dusted over. Two words, WASH ME, were scrawled in big, blocky letters in the faint layer of dirt on the hood. The bumpers and tires were spattered with thick, brown mud---someone had taken it off-road, but then decided it would be grand to visit a nothing bus-stop in the only place in London that had never seen a map. Baz was leaning over to peer through the black-tinted windows as if checking for a driver, though they had clearly seen the car saunter into parking a few minutes ago like it knew it was prettier than every other car in London, even covered in spiderwebs and dirt. ‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘Did you see someone get out?’

‘Given the dirt,’ Simon said, ‘It doesn’t look like anyone has driven it in a while.’

‘Or it’s been in someone’s garage for a millennia, and today is its first day of sunlight since,’ said Baz. ‘Hello. There’s a spider living in the steering wheel.’

Peering dubiously through the window next to Baz, Simon said, ‘But the keys are still in the ignition.’

They looked at each other.

The car was still rumbling and spattering dots of thick mud onto the pavement, like someone had spilled chocolate powder on the pavement. Baz and Simon both stepped back to keep their shoes clean, and then started in different directions around the car.

‘Isn’t this the same car Penelope found us in America?’

‘It can’t be,’ Baz traced a finger across the Mustang’s roof, then made a face. He had gotten dust on his shirt cuffs. ‘The top’s up.’ 

‘Ha,’ Simon said. ‘Very funny.’ Suddenly, Simon’s tail began to slash and writhe around his ankles. Sometimes it would act up just because Simon was bored, but something told him it wasn’t that. Was it the car? No. No, it was something else. That was right. It wasn’t just the car. Something---Some _one_ was watching them.

_Thank Merlin I’m wearing jeans,_ he thought. _My legs would be torn to shreds._ But he didn’t have faith his jeans would hold up for long. Simon leaned over and tugged them down, careful to keep his hands whole. _I should ask Penny if she’s got a spell for making denim indestructible._ (It practically already was.) (Simon had a plan. In case of a vampire uprising, he would be safe, because:

  1. He would be wearing jeans, which are impossible to bite through. He was always wearing jeans.
  2. He lived in a flat which, from the outside, was as nondescript as every other flat in England, and from the inside, didn’t even have a number on the door. It was stealthy. Tactical. Plain.
  3. He was anemic, and anemic blood probably didn’t taste as good.)



‘Something is wrong,’ Simon said.

‘Clever spider?’ asked Baz. ‘Actually,’ he looked through the window again, ‘I think the spider is dead.’

‘I don’t think it’s the car,’ Simon said softly. ‘Or the spider. The car could be magic. But---look.’ He nodded pointedly at someone standing at the side of the bus stop. ‘He isn’t magic. He’s something else.’

Baz glanced over at the subject of Simon’s attention, and when he looked back, his eyes were sharp. Searing and cold as ice and as thin as knife’s edge. Simon was worried someone might cut themselves on him if they stared for too long. ‘Don’t look at him. Don’t be obvious.’

‘Be careful my tail doesn’t get you,’ Simon said, then looked over at the man. It was the man in the mascot suit. ‘His eyes are painted. I can’t tell if he’s looking at us.’

‘You,’ Baz groaned, ‘are infuriatingly unsubtle.’

‘You look like a snake, you git,’ said Simon, ‘Merlin, it’s not me who’s being unsubtle.’ 

Baz said, ‘Crowley, do I really?’ He leaned over to look at himself in the Mustang’s window and subconsciously tucked one hand into the back pocket of his trousers. ‘Crooooooowleeeeeeeeyyyyy. Today, of all days. This isn’t what I planned.’

Both of them knew that if the Dolphin Man was a Normal, he probably wouldn’t have noticed anything strange about them. To anyone else, Baz and Simon might have looked slightly criminal, but otherwise were a normal couple. Baz was peering into the window of a stranger’s unsupervised car with both hands in his back pockets. In reality, he was blinking furiously, as though he had something in his eyes, trying to revert his pupils to their original, human state, but to anyone else, he looked like a shortsighted madman preparing to produce a crowbar from nowhere, yank open the door, hotwire the car, and drive away. Maybe he would decide to rob a bank along the way. Simon was hovering close by, peering around with rising paranoia and shifting his weight between legs once every couple of seconds. This was because his tail was writhing and biting the air around his ankles like a long, thin rattlesnake, but, again, to anyone else, he looked like a dubious lacquey on the lookout for the police. _Slightly_ was generous.

‘We should go,’ said Simon. ‘Away from…here.’ Baz gave him a strange look, and he gestured towards his jeans in response. ‘They’re going to fall apart. Something’s off. And---’ he looked over at the man in the mascot suit, who had turned completely around---‘I think it might be him.’

‘The bus comes in three minutes,’ Baz said. He looked up at the sky. Sometimes, looking at something bright helped his pupils dilate enough to pass as human. A comfortable middle ground, he would call it, but the sun hadn’t risen yet. Baz found himself staring at light grey morning clouds. It was infuriating. ‘We’ll try to avoid the tosser in cosplay,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t want to go off schedule. I think he’s…’ Baz gestured to himself. ‘You know.’

‘Gay?’

‘Simon,’ Baz breathed. ‘A vampire.’

‘Oh,’ said Simon. ‘Why do we need a schedule?’

‘Just to keep everything running smoothly, Simon.’ Baz’s left hand fumbled its way into his back-jean pocket, and the other slid into Simon’s. Charming his boyfriend was the best way to go about hiding his nervousness. He was suddenly thankful his hands were naturally cold. ‘The dolphin show is at ten.’


	2. Chapter Two

‘Your face couldn’t be any paler,’ said Simon from the side of the bus stop. He was leaning on the small slip of metal next to the toothpaste advertisement, watching Baz pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Baz didn’t respond. His schedule was falling apart and, as a side effect, so was he. When the only bus that could take him where he needed to go hadn’t turned up for twenty minutes, what was he meant to do? Had he arrived too early or too late? If he was too late, then what were all these people waiting for? Twenty minutes here was twenty minutes wasted. _This is going to be a disaster,_ he thought. _I need to call Bunce._

‘Could you,’ he said, stopping to look at Simon, ‘could you fly us there?’

‘Baz, you know I can’t. It’s too far, and I can’t carry you the whole way. We’d have to stop, and then the bus would pass us anyway.’

He was just as disappointed as Baz. But carrying himself and his mostly dead boyfriend would be exhausting. He had learned from comic books that corpses were heavier than living people, but he refused to believe Baz was the former. _Corpses don’t have heartbeats_ , he argued. _You’re not dead._ (Besides, it would be extremely jarring to feel a corpse’s heartbeat quicken when he called it Darling.)

Just then, there was a low rumbling in the distance. Two headlights began making their way slowly towards the bus stop, becoming brighter and brighter as they neared. ‘Baz,’ Simon smiled. ‘See? It’s right here. It was just late. Stop pacing.’

‘Crowley,’ Baz said, leaning into Simon. ‘This is why we never take public transport.’

Luckily, this was one of London’s newer buses. Tall, shiny and red, plastered with advertisements as big as billboards and with headlights that cut through the morning fog like a knife through soft butter. As dissatisfied as he was, Baz considered for a second that maybe the delay was worth it---he and Simon would finally be able to sit down, on newly upholstered seats, no less. Judging by the bus’s exterior, Baz wouldn’t be surprised if there had been a cocktail bar inside. The driver shot a dangerous glance in Baz and Simon’s direction when she saw the Mustang rumbling carelessly in the way, assuming it was theirs.

‘If the Mustang was ours, we’d take better care of it,’ Simon said.

‘And if the _bus_ was mine,’ said Baz blandly, ‘I’d be on-bloody-schedule.’

Baz and Simon waited until the other six people had already boarded the bus and sat down to get on. Despite the fact that there were very few people onboard, it was better not to risk a dragon-induced catastrophe, as minor as it may be---and dragon-induced catastrophes were painfully common when you spent most of your time with Simon Snow. Kissing him sometimes caused his wings to pop, and his tail had the temperament of a toddler. It was a game of Russian roulette. Baz would prefer not to pull the trigger. Today wasn’t the day for risk-taking.

‘You probably could have gotten away with a senior citizen’s ticket, Snow,’ said Baz. ‘You look like the cover boy of a nursing home fashion magazine.’

‘You’re alright now, then?’ Simon said. ‘The driver was eyeing you. You looked like a criminal.’

But then he looked down.

He was wearing a thick knitted Christmas cardigan with giant brown buttons and oversized sleeves, a pair of cuffed jeans, and socks that were just as thick and woolen as his cardigan. His shoelaces, at least, were tied; they were rainbow ones Penny had bought him from Nebraska last June. ‘I thought I looked nice,’ he said dejectedly.

‘You do look nice,’ Baz said. ‘You’re still Simon Snow. You’ve just been made-over by an eighty-year-old.’

They sat two rows behind the man in the mascot suit for the entire trip. Simon noticed that his mascot suit was missing a blowhole---an embarrassing fault, on the manufacturers part---and decided he would try to fix it by glaring a hole into the back of his head instead. It was the most he could do, without magic. _He’s probably just going to work,_ Simon thought, _it doesn’t make any sense to worry. Your boyfriend has knives in his mouth. You have dragon wings on your back. This guy is made of poorly manufactured foam blubber._

For most of the trip, Baz didn’t talk to Simon. He just tapped his hand against his leg over and over and over and as Simon watched, he got the feeling time was repeating itself time was repeating itself time was repeating itself. Simon couldn’t find a single thing to talk about besides the pattern on the back of the seats or the news program playing on the muted drop-down TV, so he pretended to fall asleep on Baz’s shoulder. Public transport was never the nicest place for Simon Snow to be; his wings always folded uncomfortably against the seat or poked into Baz or spilled over into other people’s aisles. He wished he could detach them and store them in the overhead lockers. Even in eight years, neither Baz nor Penelope had figured out how to spell his wings away completely. He didn’t want them gone forever; it was just that sometimes, they were too much. Once, they had spelled them smaller, but Simon had just forgotten they were there and squished them while he slept. He ended up having to wear a cast around his wing for three months.

Usually, Baz would have talked about anything and everything; the cars passing by, the program they had watched on television the night before---anything to make the trip go faster. Simon had actually expected him to comment on the biological incorrectness of the mascot’s missing blowhole. Crowley, can’t they do their research?

‘Baz,’ he said, feeling awkward, ‘Have you ever been sick around me or Penny?’

Baz didn’t turn away from the window. ‘I suppose so,’ he hummed. ‘When I was kidnapped by the numpties. When we road-tripped through America.’

‘And we had to eat those awful sandwiches.’

‘We didn’t have to.’

‘There wasn’t much else to eat,’ Simon said, ‘apart from the beef jerky.’

‘The polecat.’

‘You wanted to eat him?’

‘I didn’t want to,’ said Baz, ‘but I could have. Desperate times call for desperate measures.’

‘Housecats will do,’ Simon said. ‘If you’re sick, love, we can go home. The Aquarium isn’t that important. There’s Panadol in the fridge that’ll probably work on you. It isn’t garlic flavoured.’

‘I’ve had allergies before,’ Baz said, ‘Fur. That’s why I couldn’t stop sneezing in America. But I’m not sick. Crowley.’

‘Then what are you?’

‘A vampire. Tired. Probably immortal,’ said Baz, ‘and definitely not sick.’

If he were a man of wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories, he probably would have said, ‘ _To define is to limit._ ’

Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Baz’s eyes told him to be quiet. They had become daggers faster than Simon had time to process anything had changed. Baz jolted upright and swiveled in his seat to press his hands against the glass, looking backwards towards the road. Simon tried to see over his seat, but the people sitting in the row behind them had shut their curtains. ‘What is it?’ Simon whispered.

‘The Mustang,’ Baz hissed, ‘is tailing the bloody bus.’

‘The Mustang?’ Simon’s tail jerked against his seat. ‘What do you mean it’s tailing the bloody bus?’

Before Baz could answer, the car glided into view beside their window. The convertible roof was still up, but the windows had been rolled all the way down.

The passenger seat was empty. So was the driver’s.

The Mustang was driving on its own.

‘What in Merlin’s name,’ said Simon. ‘Did we do something wrong?’

There was a jolt of pain up his arm and through his hand, and something warm began to squelch beneath his palm. Then he heard something rip and realized his tail had torn his seat in two, throwing stuffing and fabric into the empty aisles beside him, like a child throwing a tantrum. People were staring already. That’s what people were best at. ‘BAZ,’ he said in what was more of a stage whisper, ‘SWITCH. SEATS. NOW.’

Baz was already moving. ‘ **Nothing to see here,** ’ he said loudly, each of his words burning with magic. ‘ **These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.** ’ The Normals were suddenly intensely interested in everything that wasn’t Simon Snow. Baz reached behind Simon and held down his tail with both hands. The spade tip was whipping the air dangerously close to his face; he could feel it. ‘Switch,’ he said. 

The Mustang was still riding parallel to the bus, but it was the least of Simon’s concerns. He was busy avoiding taking out one of Baz’s eyes with his tail, trying to navigate over and around Baz, and closing their curtains all at once. All of this difficulty was amplified by the fact they were both in a tiny space on a moving bus full of passengers, his tail was invisible and slashing around like a candle in the wind, and he still had giant dragon wings.

Simon toppled headfirst into the window, and the Mustang swerved into the opposite lane of traffic. Baz wrapped his hand around Simon’s waist, but to no avail; they lurched into one another, the window, and finally, the ground.

‘Alright?’ said Baz from above. Simon nodded slowly. He noticed a small, bleeding cut underneath Baz’s left eye and was thankful for a moment it hadn’t been any closer. The driver yelled at them in a strong Scottish accent.

Simon’s tail had finally calmed down and slid around Baz’s arm as they used one another as support. ‘This wasn’t in your schedule,’ Simon said, ‘was it?’

‘There’s blood on your seat.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Are _you_ okay?’ Baz said quickly. ‘You’re bleeding. Come here. Give me your hand.’ Baz produced his wand from the front pocket of his floral suit jacket and pressed it to Simon’s mouth. ‘ **Kiss it better!’** he said, and then touched his lips to Simon’s palm. ‘Alright?’

‘Alright,’ Simon smiled. He held on to Baz’s hand. ‘But now there’s blood on your mouth. You look like Dracula.’

‘I always do,’ said Baz. ‘Dracula is an extension of my psyche.’ He searched each one of his pockets for something to wipe the blood on but found nothing. So, he took out his perfectly folded itinerary, wiped the blood on the corner with the least handwriting, and then folded it again. In any other situation, he would have spelled the blood away; but there was only so much magic you could do in front of Normals before they started to suspect.

‘These things should come with bloody seatbelts,’ Simon laughed. He leaned into Baz’s arm. ‘You alright? You should’ve seen what the Mustang did.’

‘I am,’ Baz said, ‘and I did.’

‘Do you think it’s following us?’

‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘But we’ve not done anything to provoke it.’

‘I don’t know, Snow,’ Baz said. ‘There isn’t much you can do to provoke a _car._ Maybe my family angered Elon Musk. Maybe he’s out for their first-born son. Lucky me.’

‘I don’t think Elon Musk is a mage,’ Simon said. ‘But there’s no way that wasn’t magic. It went straight into the other lane and didn’t cause a crash. It was brilliant.’

Baz looked at Simon Snow like he wanted to spell him quiet. He nodded pointedly towards the front of the bus. Simon looked.

The man in the mascot suit had turned in his seat to watch them.

Or, at least, his mascot suit head and its dull, painted eyes had swiveled around one hundred and eighty degrees like an owl, and the man inside was staring at nothing but foam.

Both options were equally unnerving.

Though the former was most likely.

‘Oh,’ Simon said. He sunk deep into his seat. ‘Well. Okay.’ Baz had his hand resting over the top of Simon’s tail. It was writhing again. Simon could feel it. ‘I think we should get off.’

‘No,’ said Baz. ‘I could spell him into the ground.’

‘ _Stand your ground_?’ Simon suggested.

‘Or we could lower him down in a coffin. We’ll still be on schedule for the shark tunnel.’

‘Merlin, you’re dramatic. The shark tunnel won’t defend you in court.’

‘But you will,’ Baz smiled. It was the kind of smile one shouldn’t flash if they knew what was best for the people around them. Far too charming. Far too familiar. And Simon was terribly in love with it.

‘Would,’ said Simon, careful not to let his boyfriend coerce him into homicide. He took Baz’s free hand and rubbed his knuckles where they had collided with the glass earlier. Baz closed his eyes. ‘But you’re not killing anyone. Not on public transport.’

Baz groaned. ‘Whatever happened to romance?’

‘Just being considerate,’ Simon sighed. ‘I’d lose my mind if I only got to speak to you on visitation.’ He was trying to keep his tail from tearing Baz’s hand apart. It was thrashing against the seat like a wild dog in a muzzle.

The Aquarium was about forty minutes from their flat by bus (one hour and fifteen minutes without Baz’s _Hurry Up_ spell), thirty-five minutes by train, and twenty by air. They had taken the bus because the underground was usually cramped in the morning, and Simon would rather not kill anyone on their daily commute to work; but buses seemed to operate on an entirely different schedule to the one passengers were given, so they would be off schedule either way. Simon wished everyone on the bus had been having enough fun for Baz to cast _Time Flies---_ the trip would be over in ten minutes. His wings, pressed against the glass, were beginning to ache.


	3. Chapter 2.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little bit lazy & so I'm uploading 2.5, a.k.a. the part of Chapter Three I'm proud of. Please enjoy! <3

Simon Snow had never been to the Aquarium in person. Only through pamphlets, photographs, and the photos Baz had shown him two Christmases ago of a trip there with his family when he was younger. They had been taken on an old Nokia flip phone, printed, and pasted into a scrapbook by Aunt Fiona. Baz, Nine Years Old---London Aquarium. In Simon’s favorite photo of Baby Baz, he ate strawberry ice cream and stood in a dome of glass as fish and eels swam around his head, his eyes wide with wonder and the Aquarium pamphlet folded neatly in the pocket of his camel-colored khakis. Nothing much had changed since then; he was taller, definitely, but still posh enough to wear khakis and be taken seriously. (Which should be impossible. When Simon was nine, he insisted on only wearing a flannel three sizes too big for him for five months. Like a magically shrunken lumberjack.)

Up close, the Aquarium was one of the most beautiful buildings he had ever seen; absolutely, phenomenally huge, about three times the size of Baz’s family manor and twice as old. Large stone pillars went on for what seemed like miles in either direction---Simon couldn’t make sense of the shapes in the distance through the thick morning fog, even though it was starting to clear. Cream-colored stone tiles ran along the floor, dodging old-fashioned lamp-posts, gardens of flowers showered with mildew, and marine-themed water fountains until they changed direction and climbed the exterior walls instead, leading Simon’s eyes to a large semicircle window plastered with peeling golden letters: ‘LONDON AQUARIUM.’

‘This is like being at Disneyland,’ said Simon. ‘We should have come with Penelope. She’d have loved it.’

Simon soon realized he’d been speaking to himself. As he had been admiring the building, Baz found himself admiring a small patch of pink flowers near the Aquarium’s entrance. 

‘Considering botany now?’ Simon asked, kneeling beside him. 

‘The gardens here have always been beautiful,’ said Baz. ‘And besides…’ He plucked a flower from the tiny garden and, after smoothing the petals with his thumb, tucked it into the topmost button of Simon’s knitted cardigan. ‘Pink has always been your color. Shame peonies aren’t in bloom this time of year.’ 

‘You’re such a romantic. Somewhere out there, there’s a book where you’re the main love interest. Thousands of girls across the country are swooning at your name, _Tyrannus._ ’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Baz said. ‘Maybe romanticism is a common trait in vampires. Keep going and I’ll run off to Alaska for a week.’

‘Dramatics, too. We should ask Penny if she has a spell for making flowers immortal.’

‘I could try biting it, but I prefer the taste of sunflower petals.’

‘Vampire flowers aren’t a thing,’ Simon laughed.

‘The oldest flower in the world was one-hundred and thirty million years old---’

‘A-ha!’ Simon said suddenly, and Baz jumped--- ‘ _Song as old as rhyme_! Penelope used it on her herb garden once, and now all of her plants regrow as soon as they’re picked! Where’s your wand? Merlin, it should work better on flowers.’

‘It works for her herb garden because the only herb she grows is thyme,’ said Baz. ‘It should work for roses, though---I’ll pick you a rose if we come across one. Remind me. Let’s go inside.’ 

Baz was almost four inches taller than Simon now; three inches taller in height, plus one inch in the shoes he was wearing. When he left Watford, Simon hoped he would grow at least a few inches, but, as it happens, surviving on a diet of scones and butter does not do the body any favors. What he lacked in height, he made up for in wingspan. (When he spread them out, Simon’s wings could take up the entire couch.) But giant, invisible, inconvenient dragon wings didn’t make kissing his six-foot-two-in-heels boyfriend any easier. So, Simon balanced himself with his tail and leaned up. ‘Thank-you,’ he said, kissing him softly, ‘but you could have used a rose by any other name.’

(What many people didn’t know about Simon Snow was that he had four or five spells in his head for any given occasion, at any moment. Magic history and language was a long, deep rabbit hole of information he had fallen into soon after he lost his magic, so being with him now was like walking with a bronze-curled, blue-eyed, heavily freckled thesaurus.)

Baz, lightly flustered, took the itinerary from the pocket of his floral-patterned trousers. It was crumpled now, from all of the excitement on the bus, and after having been used as a napkin, a great scarlet bloodstain corrupted the entire bottom left corner. It was still legible, though, and that was what mattered. Baz had the timetable memorized now after reciting it to himself every day for two weeks while brushing his teeth or getting dressed; but it wasn’t the timetable he was reading. Penelope had scribbled a note of encouragement in the page’s margins;

_Good Luck, Basil! Remember what we practiced._

And then, in Shepard’s handwriting, slightly obscured by the blood;

_Buy something from the gift store. Come by afterwards, too? We’ll make coffee!_

Baz tucked the paper into his pocket again, took Simon’s hand, and stepped through the Aquarium’s revolving doors. This day had terrified him for months, but he was empowered both by Shepard’s promise of coffee and the fact that at the end of the day, Simon Snow might think about hyphens. He was also wearing an incredibly nice suit.


End file.
